


Storm

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, cassandra hates the storm coast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24684310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: The rain starts about half-a-day’s journey from their destination, and doesn’t stop. By the time they arrive at the Storm's Solitude camp, Cassandra is wet and grumpy. Then Trevelyan makes it worse...
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Storm

The rain starts about half-a-day’s journey from their destination, and doesn’t stop. A few hours later, it slows to a near drizzle, giving her hope of clear skies, but then it becomes yet heavier. A veritable storm, true to its name. What of her was still dry is drenched in moments. By the time they reach the Storm’s Solitude camp, despite being wrapped carefully in oil cloth, even everything in her pack is uncomfortably moist.

By Andraste, she _hates_ the Storm Coast.

Her only comfort is that, while Varric seems mostly unaffected under his hooded cloak, Vivienne is as disapproving of the weather as she is. There is only so much that the enchanter’s drying charms can do. 

Trevelyan, on the other hand, seems lighter and brighter as the weather worsens, even for him.

While Scout Harding is giving her assessment of the situation, he peers over her at the coastline behind, barely listening to her words except to give short and placatory responses.

“Enjoy the sea air,” the scout finishes. “I hear it’s good for the soul.”

A beaming grin spreads across his face in response, darting forwards along the headland as soon as he’s able. She sighs, predicting yet more of his wayward antics. Varric gives her a fond but weary smirk. Vivienne rolls her eyes and disappears inside one of the tents, in anticipation of yet another delay.

“Go get him back, Seeker,” Varric says, gaze drifting towards Harding’s retreating back. “I’ll get the rest of the details about these missing soldiers.”

When she finds the Herald, he’s standing on the very edge of the headland a little way north of the camp, overlooking the Waking Sea. The fog is thick, the visibility poor. He has his head tipped back, rain splattering against his closed eyes and open mouth.

“Trevelyan?” she asks after a moment, confused.

He opens his eyes, looking at her with another wide grin. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

She raises an eyebrow, sighing. Spoiled noble circle mage. Everything is such a _new_ experience for him. It is frankly exhausting. The number of times in the Hinterlands he was distracted from their path by some random bystander, abandoned cabin or interesting plant… It’s enough to drive her crazy. It seems the Storm Coast will be no different.

“Wonderful,” she echoes, with distinctly less enthusiasm.

“Don’t you just love the smell of the coast?”

She takes a breath in, humouring him. It smells like salt and rotten wood and something indescribably… bad. Green and decaying. Though whether it’s from the sea, currently crashing alarmingly hard against the rocks, or the interminable rain, she can’t be certain. Whatever it is, she hates it.

“The Free Marches are just across the sea,” he continues, filling the silence as she tries to decide how short to be with him. “Kirkwall directly across, and Ostwick…” He gestures expansively towards the east. “Somewhere over there.”

“I am aware.”

He smiles at her again, seemingly unaware of either her less than pleasant mood or the pressing nature of their actual business. “Of course, sorry. You were in Kirkwall, weren’t you? Sorry. Did you cross the sea here before the Conclave too?”

This is a waste of time.

“Yes,” she affirms quickly. And then, “Herald, we have work to do. The missing soldiers, the bandits.”

“It was the first time I’d ever left the Free Marches,” he continues, as if he hasn’t heard her. “We travelled to Starkhaven and Kirkwall and Tantervale a few times when I was a child, for the Grand Tourney, but once I was in the Circle, that was it. I never thought I’d ever leave Ostwick again. The air here, it smells like it did there. It smells like home.”

Oh, by the Maker… a homesick herald. As if their job wasn’t already hard enough.

“Herald.”

He ducks his head, looking a little bashful. “Sorry. Again. Missing soldiers, yes. Bandits. I was listening, I promise.”

She nods, sharply, used to pulling him back from his distractions.

They are barely a few steps back towards the camp when she hears a yelled battle cry, and the unmistakable sound of metal clashing against metal. Trevelyan immediately darts back to the edge of the headland, leaning out over it to where there is suddenly, and almost inexplicably, a fight going on. Perhaps a dozen fighters on either side.

“Krem!” Trevelyan yells, mysteriously delighted.

She tries to think. There have been a number of new recruits since the events of the Conclave and their recent expedition to the Hinterlands, but it is not a familiar name. One of Leliana’s scouts, perhaps? She has less to do with them. But none of the fighters are wearing Inquisition colours, and one side seems distinctly… Tevinter.

Before she knows what’s happening, the Herald is starting to scramble down the headland, staff in hand, towards the fight. She follows him, reaching out to grab his free arm and yank him back before he gets too far.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She can’t help but let a note of warning enter her tone. “Who are those people?”

“The Chargers,” he says, like this explains anything at all.

“Again. Who?”

“I met Krem – their lieutenant – in Haven. He said the Chargers – his mercenary company – were on the trail of some Tevinter mercenaries at the Coast, and that we should come and meet his boss here. And, well, we were already planning to come here, so I said we would.”

“You?”

His face clouds over like the sky above them. “He said they had lots of experience, and references, from Val Royeaux! Cullen was just complaining the other day that more than half of the new recruits have no experience, and I thought…”

“You brought him to Cullen?” she interrupts.

A friendly mercenary company would not be the worst addition to the Inquisition’s resources. She would have preferred to be briefed on the situation, but if Cullen has approved it…

But Trevelyan’s face pales.

Maker’s breath.

Not again.

“I thought I was doing a good thing. He came all the way to the Chantry at Haven, and… Everyone’s so busy at the moment, and we were setting out to come here the following day anyway…” He trails off, glancing over his shoulder at the already slightly thinning battle, and sighs, his whole form slumping a little as he replaces his staff in the holster across his back. “I’m sorry, Cassandra.”

She gives him a glare that she hopes conveys the seriousness of their situation.

“This is becoming quite the habit, Trevelyan.”

He ducks his head again. “I know. But you like Madame de Fer! And Sera’s not… _so_ bad, once you get to know her.”

That provokes another sigh.

“Wait here. I will fetch Varric and Vivienne. Do _not_ join the fighting until I return.”

“Yes, Cassandra.”

She fixes him with another stony glare. “ _Wait_ , Trevelyan.”

He presses a hand against his chest. “I promise.”

Of course, by the time she returns, having picked her way back to the camp through the soaking undergrowth and located Varric scouting out the missing soldiers’ path to the south, the battle is over, and the Herald is down on the beach, talking to what looks like… yes, a massive qunari with an eyepatch. Other members of his company appear to be moving through their fallen foes, checking for any survivors, and two of them are hefting casks, presumably of ale, on their shoulders.

“I see Firefly’s made some more friends,” Varric says, with an irritating air of amusement.

She sighs again.

“Wait here. I will retrieve him.”

As she makes her own way down to the coastline, the qunari finishes his conversation with Trevelyan, yelling out to someone (the aforementioned Krem?) that they’ve been hired, and to cork up the casks.

_Hired._

“Trevelyan,” she grinds out as he catches her eye and pales again.

The qunari flicks his fingers in a lazy imitation of a salute as he passes her, which worsens her already terrible mood yet further.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Trevelyan starts, as he dashes up to her, staff held casually in one hand as if he is a little afraid that she might attack him on sight.

She has not _entirely_ ruled it out.

“I _didn’t_ join the fight. Just as I promised. But they cleared up the Tevinter lot quickly, and so efficiently, and then Krem saw me and called out, and well, it would have been rude to stay up there, wouldn’t it? So I came down, and I met the Iron Bull, and he was so charming and honest, and he knew about Josephine and Leliana, and…”

“You _hired_ them?”

He falters a little. “It seemed like a foregone conclusion, to be honest.”

She can’t help the noise of sheer exasperation that escapes her. “Trevelyan.”

“It sounds like they’ll be helpful. The Iron Bull is a… Ben… something.”

By the Maker, will this never end?

“A Ben-Hassrath? A _spy_?”

He nods, the irritating enthusiasm returning to his bearing. “The Ben-Hassrath, or, I suppose, the whole qun, they’re concerned about the Breach too. They ordered him to join the Inquisition and get close to us. Send back reports about what we’re doing. But he’s going to let us tell him what to put in the reports, and give us the reports he gets from other spies. All over Orlais.”

“And he just… told you this?”

He nods again. “He wants the Breach closed as badly as any of us. He’s on our side. And besides, he said that with a name like the ‘Inquisition’, someone would have found out eventually. So it’s better for him to be honest. Also, something about liking redheads. I don’t think I’ll be telling Leliana about that bit.”

“You will be telling Leliana about _all of it_ ,” she insists. “Did he say anything else?”

Looking away from her, he tilts his head thoughtfully, glancing down the beach as if mentally retracing their conversation. “I think Iron Bull wants to join our party? He said something about me needing a frontline bodyguard.”

He said _what?_

It takes almost everything in her not to storm after the qunari and challenge him to an outright duel. Trevelyan _has_ a frontline bodyguard. A perfectly good one. Her. How dare he…

She notices that Trevelyan has taken half a step back from her, and his hand is a little firmer on his staff than it was before. He’s afraid of her. Good. He should be. Perhaps then he will do what he is told.

“I really am sorry, Cassandra,” he says, softly, eyes sliding to where Varric and Vivienne stand, just within earshot further up the bluff.

Letting out a deep and aggravated breath, she relents. “If he proves to be telling the truth, they will be a useful resource. But he will not be joining your party until he has been fully vetted, by Leliana, Josephine, Cullen _and_ myself.”

He nods. “Should we go and look for those missing soldiers now?”

She can’t help but let out a short, sharp laugh. “ _You_ will be returning to the camp and writing all of this up in a report. Two reports. One short one to send by raven now, and another, fully detailed account, for you to present to Leliana when we return.”

His face clouds over again. “Usually you write the reports. You’re good at it.”

“And if you had briefed me on the situation in the first place, or waited for me to return before involving yourself, I _would_ be writing it,” she replies, raising a disapproving eyebrow. “But as I had no interaction with the event, I will not.”

“What about the missing soldiers?”

“We have their last known location. Varric, Vivienne and I will investigate while you are occupied, and return to retrieve you once we have a lead.”

“Oh.”

He sounds so sad and resigned, and if it weren’t entirely his own fault, she might even feel sorry for him.

Then she hears the crack of a lightning strike, and an ensuing roll of thunder, and the way his face lights up, tipping back to let the rain splash his face once more, immediately removes what little sympathy she has. Void taken storm mage. She hates it. The prospect of trampling through the area, up and down the rocky slopes, was already distasteful, but during a thunderstorm?

“On second thoughts, I will supervise you. Maker only knows what you will write if left to your own devices.”

To his credit, he tries to hide the joy he clearly feels at her defeat. They head back to camp, and to, if the Maker is at all kind, a dry tent and a mug of something hot.

By Andraste, she _hates_ the Storm Coast.


End file.
